


Garnets and Pearls

by Plath_and_Laster



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! GX
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Cliche, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Family, Fuburyoary 2021, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, Romance, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29708331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plath_and_Laster/pseuds/Plath_and_Laster
Summary: Ryou attempts to propose. Given that he’s overthinking it (and that the universe is evidently conspiring against him), the whole thing goesaboutas well as one might expect.
Relationships: Marufuji Ryou | Zane Truesdale/Tenjouin Fubuki | Atticus Rhodes
Comments: 32
Kudos: 20





	1. Amethysts

**Author's Note:**

> Me, in the last week of Fuburyoary: _**YOU HAVE TO WRITE SOMETHING FOR THIS**_
> 
> With that, uh, _deadline_ in mind, this is going to be a biiit of a rushed job, but it isn't too intensive plot-wise so it _should_ be fine? I apologize in advance if there's an entire paragraph that repeats itself or a half-finished sentence sitting around. I will magically discover them only after I post this, I'm sure. All of that aside, I hope you enjoy it! Have a wonderful day and thanks for reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a clear head and quick wit.

Ryou cherishes every photograph of his mother. The proof of Marufuji Shiori’s short, beautiful life is documented in these snapshots, in these glimpses, each fleeting moment captured indefinitely. He’s lost count of all the time he’s spent staring at what few pictures he still has of her, willing himself to be comforted by her soft smile, by her shining demeanor, by her gentle eyes. He remembers, but only just. The photographs make remembering easier, and that’s the greatest gift anyone could give.

There’s a particular one still in his father’s possession that has been on his mind lately. It’s of his mother on her wedding day, caught at the tail-end of motion as she turned to glance at the camera, her smile brighter than the sun behind her, lovelier than any of the flowers adorning the balcony she’s standing on. She looks stunning in white and red, like a goddess come to grace them all. In her satin hair, she’s wearing her favorite gift: a pair of matching hair ornaments, the very ones her soon-to-be-husband proposed to her with.

She’d told Ryou the story of their engagement when he was young, one of many moments the four of them shared before bedtime. Shou was too little and too sleepy to remember, content as he always was to snuggle in his mother’s arms, but Ryou had been wide-awake in his father’s lap as he held onto every word, every shared glance, every tender smile. His father, always so soft-spoken, seemed to come alive as he quietly told Ryou how he’d commissioned the hairpins from one of the most prolific craftsmen in the country. How he’d drafted the design and chosen the jewels himself, taking great care to match his beloved’s sensibilities. Ryou, who was familiar with his mother’s extensive collection of gifted hair ornaments, knew first-hand just how seriously his father took this particular art.

His mother had joined in, then, taking her husband’s hand as she lovingly recounted the proposal itself. His father’s face, so like Ryou’s own, had flushed in uncharacteristic embarrassment at the mere mention of how nervous he was, yet he didn’t stop her. He didn’t want to. Besides, Ryou had been dead-set on hearing the full story, so he couldn’t have called it off, anyway. Intimidating as Marufuji Syou may have seemed to everyone else, he was always soft when it came to his family.

More than anything, Ryou remembers his father’s hand sifting through his perpetually messy hair, his rare smile, his nigh-imperceptible laughter when Ryou had gravely protested going to bed once the story was done. He remembers his mother’s happiness, her thumb stroking his cheek, her obvious adoration for them all.

_“Sometimes, love is very quiet.”_ She’d said, looking between Ryou and her husband as she spoke. _“Sometimes, it’s hard to hear, but that’s alright. All you need is to find someone who will listen to you.”_

He didn’t give it much thought after his mother died, just as he didn’t think much about marriage. Marriage, as a concept, was for people who were in love. It was not for people like him, who only carried an aching emptiness inside, who couldn’t bring themselves to reach out to their own family, who couldn’t even get close enough to someone else to love them. _All you need is to find someone who will listen to you,_ she’d said, but in his own moments of weakness, he couldn’t help but doubt her. _Who would ever listen to me?_

All these years later, a part of him wishes he could go back and reassure himself: _you’ve found him._

_And he’s more than you ever could’ve dreamed_.

* * *

Marufuji Ryou is not an impulsive man. He prefers to be meticulous more often than not, taking each day with a methodical, well-planned approach. By this point in his life, he’s proud to say that he’s found a healthy balance between caution and freedom, no longer restricting himself as mercilessly as he used to while also refraining from the reckless behaviors that nearly got him killed. Generally, it serves him well.

Unfortunately, there is a certain degree to which his lack of spontaneity results in a somewhat stunted level of creativity. This doesn’t generally bother him, nor does it necessarily have an exceptionally adverse impact on his life, but sometimes it makes certain tasks a bit more...daunting. Like planning trips. And dates.

...and proposing.

Yes, at twenty-four years of age, after getting his life back together, after he and Fubuki have spent the last three or so years of their resumed relationship getting stronger every day, Ryou has decided that it’s time to get married. Well, not _immediately_ —obviously, they have to get engaged and plan the wedding first—but marriage is most assuredly the end goal. He’s ready. He wants it. All he has to do is ask.

And therein lies the issue.

He’s already halfway there, which kind of makes his current dilemma all the more embarrassing. Back when he’d first started entertaining the idea of marriage in earnest (so, about a year ago), he’d more or less decided that he would propose the same way his father had: with hair ornaments. Fubuki knows the story, after all, knows the significance of them in Ryou’s family. He hadn’t known it yet when he was newly seventeen and Ryou had given him a set of his own for his birthday, but even then, he’d seemed to sense the greater meaning in the gesture. Ryou hadn’t been ready to explain it to Fubuki at the time (nor was he even able to), but he knew what it meant for himself. It was a promise. A pact of devotion. Now, he intends on making that permanent.

It really couldn’t be more perfect. Fubuki adores romantic, emotionally significant tokens like that, and he’s _very_ partial to jewelry already. He still wears the ones that Ryou gave him all the time, wont as he is to experiment with new hairstyles and accessories (and to show off Ryou’s gifts). He’ll be absolutely delighted. That part is easy: propose with hairpins. Done.

It’s the _how_ of it that has him frustrated. Those hair ornaments he commissioned for this came in _months_ ago. 

Ryou is, by his own admission, absolutely _abysmal_ at this whole romance thing, and that’s him being generous. Fubuki will vehemently insist otherwise, but he’s biased because he loves him. Ryou knows what being wooed is _supposed_ to look like—Fubuki does it to him every day, with kind words and sweet songs and casual intimacy. His clumsy fumbling is _definitely_ not that. Normally, he can find ways to get around it, but when it comes to proposing, he’s trapped. Any sort of sub-par approach he’s liable to come up with isn’t going to cut it as far as he’s concerned.

He’d already called Asuka about it, loathe as he’d been to bother her with something like this. She’d calmly listened to his various (and increasingly ridiculous) concerns before offering a few suggestions (a dinner date at one of their favorite spots, a simple night out, a romantic evening in the privacy of their own apartment) to get him started. _“He’ll be happy as long as he’s with you,”_ she’d said reassuringly. _“Even small gestures are grand ones to him, you know. Just tell him how he makes you feel and how much you love him—the rest will sort itself out.”_

Despite being given the usual placations in different words (and from a different person, no less), at the very least, he has some ideas now. The romantic evening at home sounds particularly appealing, as the additional performative aspects that accompany trying to propose around strangers are unduly stressful. He doubts that Fubuki would want him to propose like that, anyway—not so much because he would mind, but because he would be worried about Ryou collapsing out of nerves. No, if he wants this to go well, it’s best to keep it at least somewhat private.

Calling Shou had proven far less effective, which is unsurprising in hindsight. First he’d arrested his stunted ramblings with a blunt “You’re overthinking it”, to which Ryou had responded with an uncharacteristically distressed _“I know I am”_. His brother had then possessed the nerve to laugh at him for that before telling him that Fubuki would probably still say “yes” if he threw the box at him and ran, which was just upsetting in its unfortunate accuracy. Ryou likes to think Fubuki wouldn’t let him get away with something like that, but if it meant marrying him, he probably would.

It isn’t equivalent to when he used to try and brood his way out of meeting with his psychologist or his physical therapist on bad days—Fubuki may have initially been hesitant about being too firm at first, but he’d quickly learned to put his foot down _hard_ when it came to Ryou’s lack of cooperation in his own recovery. He wouldn’t give him an inch, putting up with every black mood and darkest hour without complaint and without backing down. He loved him. He was staying until he got better. Simple as that.

And maybe _that’s_ the problem. After everything he’s been through, after everything he’s given him without asking for anything in return, after all this work they’ve done to heal themselves and be happy, Fubuki deserves the best of him. He deserves to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Ryou is one-hundred percent committed to staying with him for the rest of his life. Would Fubuki be happy with the hair ornaments and short-spoken “Marry me”? Unfortunately, since Ryou will be the one asking, yes. Does he deserve the grand proposal of his childhood dreams, with candles and flowers and heartfelt speeches of eternal devotion, instead? _Absolutely_. Ryou is aware that a romantic proposal is not a pre-requisite to a happy marriage, nor is it necessarily an indication of how much you love someone, but he feels like he ought to at least _try_.

Whatever he does, he has to make it clear that this is what he wants. Fubuki had set that precedent when they first started living together, both of them still buried in their respective messes but determined to not give up this time. Ryou already hadn’t known how he felt about Fubuki’s choice to stay and take care of him after graduation—some strange combination of gratitude and guilt—but the hard fact that they weren’t actually dating anymore had only unbalanced him further. Sure, they’d talked through a few things beforehand, but because their brutal breakup had been Ryou’s decision, Fubuki had assessed that any future changes to their relationship would have to be initiated by him, as well.

_“I’m here because I’m your friend, and because I love you,”_ he’d said, his eyes soft despite the pain reflected there. _“I’m not here to pressure you into taking me back. If you want that—if you want **me** —then you have to be the one to say so. But no matter what, I’ll be here, by your side. Like I promised.”_

Ryou had wanted him back the moment he’d come to his senses months before that conversation, had _hated_ himself for how irrationally he’d thrown everything away, but he knew he had to be careful. He wasn’t ready. Fubuki wasn’t ready. They had so much to work through first, both with themselves and each other, so he waited. Sometimes he wanted him to leave. Sometimes he wanted his friend to just let him suffer alone. Always, at the end of it all, he wanted him to stay.

_Please stay with me._

When over a year of personal growth had passed and he finally had the courage, the equilibrium, the solid footing to take that first step, he was prudent to be as honest as possible. _I love you. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I want to try again._

Fubuki had responded with a smile that lit up the whole room and a hug that took his breath away.

Now they’re here, and all the better for it. Now they’re here, happier than ever. Now they’re here, and Ryou knows what he wants. He just has to find the right way to express it.

“Easy, love.”

For a moment, he believes he’s imagined Fubuki speaking—it wouldn’t be the first time he’s conjured up his voice as a source of comfort when he’s stressed. But no, this is reality, the gentle sound of his words accompanied by the feeling of warm fingertips ghosting along his shoulders. Without thinking, he relaxes. He hadn’t even realized he’d gotten so tense.

Fubuki kisses the top of his head, and Ryou can feel him smiling.

“There we go,” he says, smoothing a hand over his hair. “Do you ever suppose your posture is a little _too_ good?”

Ryou smiles at the age-old jab, unable to help himself.

“I _suppose_ it is exactly as it needs to be.” He counters lightly, shivering a little as Fubuki’s fingers brush the back of his neck.

“I’ll have to respectfully disagree,” he teases, applying slight pressure there in silent invitation. “You’re stiff as a board, and I can practically see the smoke coming out of your head. What’s on your mind?”

Ryou takes a moment to answer, tilting his head forward to give Fubuki more space to work. What to say? He likes to be honest, but this is...embarrassing. More importantly, he doesn’t want to alert Fubuki of his plans. The proposal is supposed to be a _surprise_ , for heaven’s sake. His boyfriend is _far_ too clever when it comes to basically reading his mind, so if he isn’t careful, this’ll all be over before it even begins.

“...sorry.” He eventually mutters. “I’m just—”

Fubuki chooses that exact moment to work his massage magic and all of Ryou’s cognitive processes dissolve into the ether. He groans involuntarily, eyes fluttering shut, and manages a breathless _“You’re so good at this”_ before words fail him entirely.

His boyfriend hums, pleased. “Is it something serious, or are you perhaps overthinking it?”

Oh, he knows him too well. Ryou sighs, trying to think through the growing haze of _pleasure_ and _contentment_ as it fogs up his brain.

“...overthinking.” He eventually replies, keeping his voice as even as possible. “I just need a...a little time.”

Fubuki makes a soft noise of understanding, expertly digging his fingers into a spot that has Ryou practically melting in bliss. _That’s amazing_. He means to say so out loud, but all that comes out is a (slightly embarrassing) moan. His boyfriend laughs, soft and indulgent, and Ryou flushes.

“You’ve really gone and wound yourself up over something silly again, haven’t you.” The words are accusatory, but there’s no heat in Fubuki’s voice, just an exasperated sort of fondness. “Whatever shall I do with you, my love?”

Always so dramatic. Still, Ryou feels warm at his theatrical phrasing, enjoying the way the syllables and endearments roll off his tongue. Fubuki’s way with words extends well-past his choice of them—his delivery is half the charm, and that nuance has never escaped Ryou’s notice. When they still didn’t know each other all that well, _how_ Fubuki made his thoughts known was often just as compelling as what his thoughts actually were. He wasn’t sure how he did it, and to this day, he considers it to be one of his innumerable gifts.

“Stay with me.” He murmurs, almost without realizing it, relaxed now as he is. Fubuki goes still for a moment, and Ryou slowly opens his eyes. “...Fubuki?”

He hears a sigh, and then Fubuki leans over, wrapping his arms around his chest and burying his face in his neck. He doesn’t move. Somewhat puzzled, Ryou reaches back to stroke his hair.

“...are you alright?”

Fubuki huffs a laugh, a short rush of warmth against his skin.

“More than alright. I just—” He takes a deep breath, holding him a little tighter. “I love you so much.”

Ryou smiles to himself, tilting his head back over Fubuki’s shoulder.

“Come here,” he says softly, never mind that they’re pretty close already. Fubuki knows what he means. Ryou is just grateful that he decides to come around instead of taking the shortcut and climbing over the back of the couch. It isn’t particularly hazardous, but his boyfriend has an unfortunate superpower that makes simple tasks infinitely more dangerous than complex ones. Ryou hasn’t quite figured out how it works yet, only that it was probably a poor attempt by some divine being to balance out the fact that Fubuki was good at almost everything else.

His boyfriend is quick to get into his personal space, snuggling up to him and laying his head on his chest. Ryou leans back a bit to accommodate him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“I love you, too," He murmurs, kissing the top of his head. Fubuki sighs, deep and contented.

“I could stay here forever."

Stay here forever...? He’s most certainly planning on it. “Forever” doesn’t sound like such a foreign concept when he’s with Fubuki, nor does it seem quite so unattainable. There’s no need to overthink any of this. Proposing isn’t that big of a deal, it’s just one step closer to what they want—one step closer to that beautiful, shining _forever_.

“I wouldn’t mind.” A pause. “Just don’t forget that dinner isn’t done yet.”

Fubuki’s laughter fills the whole room with light.


	2. Emeralds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For steady protection and careful foresight.

This is _far_ from the first time they’ve ever been out for dinner together, but based on Ryou’s hypothetical blood pressure, it may as well be. He hasn’t been this nervous since the first time Fubuki climbed into his lap to flirt with him, and that was back when they were at Duel Academy. It has been _at least_ seven years since then.

_It’s just dinner,_ he keeps trying to tell himself. _It’s literally no different from any other night out._

The narrow box burning a hole in his pocket begs to differ.

He knows this should be fine. A nice dinner at one of their favorite restaurants. A short walk through the evening streets of Domino City. A quick visit to Fubuki’s favorite ice-cream parlor (the one with the veranda, the one with that wonderful view of the bay) before he gathers his courage and says his piece. He has it written down in case he forgets, because he knows the words will get caught on his tongue once he starts panicking. The panic is inevitable. No matter how many times he sees his therapist, Marufuji Ryou will always suck at expressing himself effectively.

But for Fubuki, this should be easy, right? For him, he can manage this. The restaurant isn’t even that fancy, so there’s no need to worry about it being too obvious. As far as his boyfriend knows, this is just another night out. Nothing to worry about.

_(So why is he so worried, then?)_

Ryou sighs, fiddling idly with his watch. Fubuki should’ve been here by now. Normally, they go out like this together, but his boyfriend had extra matters to attend to at work and told Ryou that he would just meet him at the restaurant, instead. This would be fine under average circumstances, but for his jangling nerves, it’s a _biiit_ of a red flag. Some exceptionally anxious part of him is ready to just text Fubuki and call it quits, but he restrains it.

Thankfully, it isn’t long before his furtive glances at the door and constant vigilance at the sound of it opening prove rewarding. Relief floods every inch of his body as Fubuki breezes into the restaurant, alerting the hostess that he’ll be joining a table that’s already occupied. Even from a distance, Ryou can tell she’s charmed by his bright smile and easygoing demeanor, all traces of being in a rush placed aside momentarily in favor of making a good impression on the staff. _She must be new,_ Ryou realizes as he overhears Fubuki introducing himself. They’ve been here often enough to be somewhat familiar with the usual staff, although his boyfriend is the only one who can actually put the names to their faces without seeing their tags.

“Sorry I didn’t call again,” Fubuki says by way of greeting, taking the seat across from him with a unique blend of harried grace. “My, uh—well, my phone died.”

The sheepish grin he offers fills him with warmth. _Oh, Fubuki_.

“It’s fine,” he assures him, reaching across the table to take his hand. “You aren’t really late.”

Fubuki beams at him, squeezing back. Despite hurrying to get here, he looks remarkably unruffled, the light flush on his face being the only indication. He looks very pretty, the overhead lights gleaming off his ponytail, and Ryou can feel the tension levels in his body dropping little by little just from being in his presence.

“Let me guess. You waited up on ordering?” Fubuki teases. Ryou frowns.

“Of course.”

His obstinacy earns him a giggle, inviting and sweet. Ryou swears his heart melts and stutters at the same time.

“Always such a gentleman. I was thinking of trying something new tonight, anyway.” Fubuki admits as he flips his menu open. “They have a new special that I’m just _dying_ to try.”

Ryou raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment, knowing full-well that he’ll probably end up choosing his usual order, anyway. Fubuki may be the more adventurous one between the two of them, but when it comes to comforts, he tends to stick with what’s familiar.

Fubuki glances up at him. “You sure you’re okay?”

Mentally, Ryou sighs. It’s nigh-impossible to keep any of his feelings hidden from Fubuki, isn’t it? He still remembers wondering (with complete seriousness at times) if his newfound friend was a telepath when they were still in high school together. After so many years of being utterly inscrutable to everyone, having someone else be able to practically read his mind had come as a great shock. It still catches him off-guard to this day.

“...better now.” He admits. There. A half-truth. That isn’t so bad. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

Fubuki—Fubuki _blushes_ slightly at that, his smile almost shy. He obviously hadn’t been expecting that turn of phrase, and Ryou is proud of himself for managing it. Maybe this won’t be so hard, after all.

And for a while, it certainly feels like everything is going to be just fine. After some deliberation, Fubuki (as Ryou predicted) settles on his usual order, and while they wait, launches into a lengthy story about his parents’ first date. Ryou doesn’t mind, of course—rather, this is what he’d wanted all along. When their food comes and Fubuki swipes something off of his plate, he doesn’t mind that, either. It’s habit. Routine. Normalcy, comforting in its predictability. Ryou finds himself relaxing fully for the first time that evening, content in knowing that his boyfriend’s easy smiles are the cause.

There is...one thing, though. Ryou can’t help but notice that things aren’t looking too good with the recently-seated pair to their left. As Fubuki might say it, the energy is all wrong, and they don’t even look like they’re having any fun. If anything, they’re just...arguing. They’ve been arguing since they sat down. It isn’t even the meaningless or playful kind, like what Juudai and Manjoume engage in sometimes—they’re actually _angry_. It’s honestly annoying him a little, and if he’s catching onto the bad vibes, he can’t imagine how his poor boyfriend must be feeling. Fubuki is practically an empath, so there’s just no way he isn’t having to deal with this. Self-consciously, Ryou digs into his food a little faster.

“Love,” Fubuki says softly, tapping his wrist to catch his attention. “Don’t worry.” His voice takes on a wry tone as he adds, “They’ll probably be leaving pretty soon, anyway.”

He’s right, as he usually is when it comes to people and their tumultuous emotions. Not five minutes later, one of them takes a phone call in the middle of her companion’s story. Ryou isn’t looking, but he can _feel_ the man’s ire rising to a boiling point. He makes one last effort to catch her attention, but when she ignores him completely, he snaps.

Ryou isn’t sure how he’d been expecting him to react, but _throwing a drink in her face_ definitely hadn’t been it. He stands here, chest heaving, looking oddly triumphant despite his childish behavior. Ryou jumps a little in his seat when he slams the now-empty glass back down on the table.

For her part, the woman is shocked into silence for a full ten seconds before she scrambles to her feet.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?!”

“Oh, _me?_ How about _you_ , huh?”

Their voices are too loud, their words too harsh—they’re in _public_ , for crying out loud, and they’re stopping to this level? Getting into a shouting match in the middle of a restaurant? Ryou’s annoyance flares, but he resolutely refuses to look. He doesn’t want to give them any sort of excuse to engage with him. Based on their complete lack of awareness regarding the restaurant staff hovering nervously nearby, it’s a very real possibility they wouldn’t notice him staring, anyway.

“You’re just mad cuz I didn’t say anything about your stupid jacket!”

“It isn’t stupid!”

“It is! And it’s ugly, too!”

Fubuki snorts at that, seemingly unable to help himself. Like Ryou, he’s been mostly ignoring the virtual car accident occurring to their left, but he can sense _something_ shifting beneath his forced disinterest. He hopes it’s just amusement and not anything too unpleasant.

The man slams his hands down on the table, nearly upending his plate.

“You’re such a bitch!”

“And _you’re_ a jackass!”

Ryou shrinks down into his seat, his annoyance slowly shifting into something closer to discomfort. _Are they...are they going to stop?_ Fubuki, who by this point has been watching the proceedings with an exasperated (and somewhat perplexed) look on his face, notices this, and his expression hardens into a steely glare. _Oh, no_.

“Fubuki—” He starts, not wanting him to get involved, but it’s too late. Fubuki has already taken both of their drinks and, in an exceedingly rare gesture of vexation, dumped the contents over the quarreling patrons.

It has the intended effect—or at least, Ryou assumes it does. Both of them fall silent immediately, their heated words cut short by this unexpected development. They seem shocked. So do the nearby waiters. So is he, for that matter. Fubuki hardly ever loses his temper, and when he does, it tends not to manifest so dramatically. Ryou’s only explanation is that he must’ve _really_ wanted to get their attention and felt like shouting wouldn’t be enough to do the job.

“ _That’s enough_.”

Fubuki isn’t shouting now, either, but his voice carries just the same, steady and authoritative. It’s the kind of tone he takes on when he’s being deadly serious, when he’s trying to make it absolutely clear that he isn’t messing around anymore. It has been a while since Ryou has heard that voice used—it has been a while since Fubuki has needed to use it at all. An unpleasant feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. Does he think that they've upset him...?

“Now that you’re quite finished, I think it would be for the best if we took this outside, yes?” He continues, coldness permeating his every word. “You’ve caused enough problems for everyone here, so leaving quietly is the least you could do.”

Ryou holds his breath, unsure if they’ll be compliant or not. They’re both staring at his boyfriend with wide eyes, frozen in place as he puts his hands on his hips and sighs.

“Both of you.” The more direct address seems to startle them. Ryou is just relieved to hear that his tone has thawed out a bit. “Come with me. We’re going outside.”

They could easily lash out at him, too. They clearly have the temperaments for it. But there’s something about Fubuki’s bearing in this moment, his more imposing stature, his evident disapproval, that has them both slinking away like shamed children. Fubuki follows close behind, casting a concerned glance over his shoulder at Ryou before exiting, too. The silence that descends in their absence is deafening.

He sits there for a while, awkward and alone, listlessly picking at his food as he waits for his boyfriend to come back. A few waiters scurry around nearby, cleaning up the mess their unpleasant guests left behind. He feels a little guilty knowing that part of that mess was Fubuki’s doing, but at least it had been in service to ending the altercation and, most likely, preventing more damage from being done.

He can imagine the lecture that must be unfolding outside right now. In hindsight, he supposes it was only a matter of time before Fubuki interrupted. He doesn’t like seeing people fight, let alone somewhere like this where they’re causing problems for the restaurant employees. Hopefully, he’s talked them down by now.

Honestly, this is just embarrassing, not to mention _disgustingly_ unlucky. This debacle has just thrown their entire evening off-kilter. Even if the mood recovers (and of course it still could), proposing after a mess like that feels distinctly unwise. Marufuji Ryou isn’t a superstitious man by any stretch of the imagination, but after everything he’s been through, he knows an omen when he sees one. Or, at least, he knows he’ll probably end up thinking about the shouting match while he’s trying to propose, effectively derailing the whole thing. It just won’t do.

A part of him feels like he’s being a coward, but most of him accepts this reasoning as at least somewhat sensible. He can’t imagine that Fubuki would enjoy being proposed to after witnessing two people almost get into a fistfight, and frankly, neither would he. Their special moment can wait for some other time. Preferably a time with less shouting.

The doors swing open, admitting an unusually grim-faced Fubuki. Ryou watches as he stops to speak with the hostess, no doubt explaining the situation and checking in on her. Even though he hasn’t seen him up close yet, Ryou can tell he’s agitated—his shoulders are tense, his mannerisms restrained, his posture stiff. Still, he smiles at the hostess for her troubles and tips the staff responsible for cleaning up the aftermath, apologizing to them all for his rash behavior. Considering he’s the one who removed the problem, they all seem more grateful than upset.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Fubuki quips as he returns to their table, his light-hearted demeanor only the slightest bit forced. “I got tired of that faster than I expected to.” His expression softens as he looks closer at him. “Are you okay?”

Ryou nods, not trusting himself to say the right thing. If he gives Fubuki too many distress cues, he’ll take them home immediately, and he doesn’t want that. He has no intentions of calling off their entire evening just because two idiots couldn’t stand being in public together.

“Do you want to go home?” Fubuki asks him anyway, his voice gentle. “We can do something quiet.”

Ryou shakes his head.

“There’s no reason to do that. Let’s just go somewhere else.”

His boyfriend glances at their mostly-empty plates, then back at Ryou as though he’s checking on him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Fubuki smiles, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Ryou’s ear. The touch lingers against his cheek, a whisper of warmth against his skin.

“Alright. Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

The outside seating area of Fubuki’s favorite ice-cream parlor is mercifully devoid of other people, and Ryou sinks gratefully into one of the chairs, suddenly exhausted. The short walk here is not the culprit, though—that honor goes to every social interaction he’s been unfortunate enough to have today, friendly or otherwise. Still, he refuses to go home just yet. The weather is nice, things are quiet now, and Ryou knows better than to try and walk anywhere with Fubuki while his boyfriend is holding food.

“It’s so pretty out here,” Fubuki sighs, gazing longingly out at the bay. “Just look at the sun on the water!”

At least there’s this. He’ll admit that he feels better already, now that they’ve achieved some distance from the situation and have mutually decided to just move on with their lives rather than discuss it further. Fubuki seems to be enjoying his ice-cream, too, which is a bonus. He scoops up a small bite, then offers his spoon to Ryou.

“Want some?” He inquires, his eyes sparkling like they always do whenever he does something overly-affectionate in public. He knows there’s a good chance Ryou will refuse, but he never stops trying—it’s just as well, because Ryou honestly doesn’t mind this time. Fubuki’s choice of flavor is simple tonight, anyway (just chocolate ice-cream with brownie chunks), so the sweetness won’t be overwhelming. He nods.

“Sure.”

Fubuki beams at him, out-competing the sun with just a flash of his teeth. Ryou leans forward and his boyfriend carefully (almost daintily) feeds him the little bit of ice-cream. As expected, it’s sweet, but not excessively so. After eating it, he can imagine that Fubuki’s kisses will taste a little like chocolate. The thought makes him smile.

His boyfriend reaches across the table to take his hand, his fingers slightly colder than usual from holding the ice-cream cup. His brown eyes are soft, and he gazes at him with such tenderness and appreciation that Ryou immediately feels his chest tighten.

“I love you.”

Just like that, all of the lingering tension in his body just. Evaporates. All of the questions in his head, all the things he can’t change, all the variables he can’t control—meaningless. Irrelevant. Unimportant when compared to this exact moment, to this feeling of _belonging_ he gets whenever Fubuki says that to him. Everything will be fine. The worst of their lives, the worst of _themselves_ has already passed. They overcame it together. _Together_. No matter how long this takes, they’ll always be together.

The box in his pocket doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore, as though it also understands that a better day will come. Ryou strokes the back of Fubuki’s hand with his thumb, squeezing it lightly.

“I love you, too.”


	3. Aquamarine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For courage and clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very tired so there are probably some _egregious_ errors present here but I keep having Stress Dreams about this story so I'm posting it tonight! I will make any edits necessary, though, so don't worry. Thank you so much for reading!

Ryou generously gives himself and the general public about a week to get their collective acts together before taking another shot at making his commitment official. Given the mess that occurred during his last attempt, perhaps a higher-end restaurant might be a better place to start. Not that rich people are any less prone to throwing unnecessary fits in public—quite the opposite, actually, in Ryou’s personal experience—but Fubuki enjoys dressing up, and they always have fun when they’re together. Maybe the refined, slightly stifled atmosphere will help calm his nerves. Maybe. Hopefully.

Thus far, the evening has actually gone very well. They’ve only just been seated, but there was no hassle with getting ready, they weren’t late, and their reservation wasn’t abruptly cancelled for some arbitrary reason. The people around them seem happy enough to be here (and more importantly, happy enough to be here with their current company), so overall, Ryou counts that as a win.

Admittedly, he’s a little...distracted from assessing their surroundings. _His_ current company is in fine form tonight, beautiful beyond compare. Fubuki is always radiant, but there’s something to say about the way he shines whenever he dresses up with the intention of being fancy. He looks positively magnificent in his jewel-toned purple suit, and the slightest bit of eyeliner he applied earlier makes his eyes look even more arresting than they already are. His hair is pulled back about halfway, lending his appearance a distinctly elegant air, and he’s so effortlessly charming that he had both the hostess and the waiter completely smitten in an instant. Ryou can’t blame them. He’s smitten, too.

“We’re getting dessert, right?” Fubuki asks, breaking him out of his appreciative haze. “That chocolate cheesecake is calling my name.”

To Ryou’s embarrassed delight, his boyfriend proceeds to act this personification out.

“ _Fubuki, Fubuki!_ ” He squeaks, flapping the menu slightly. “ _Please eat me, I’m delicious!_ ”

Ryou snorts, unable to help himself. How he managed to fall in love with such a silly man when he’s always been anything but is somewhat beyond him, but he doesn’t regret it in the slightest. Even if the sight and sound of him goofing off about a cheesecake is distinctly at-odds with his graceful, regally-beautiful appearance.

“You can order whatever you like,” Ryou informs him, perusing his own menu. “And I may or may not reserve the right to judge your tastes personally.”

Fubuki giggles. “Maybe not the cheesecake, then.”

Heavens, but they’ve been doing this for years. Most of the sweets Fubuki selectively indulges in are too decadent for Ryou’s milder tastes, but every now and then, one little bite will suffice. Fubuki is always more than happy to accommodate for this, and almost always insists on feeding it to him if he asks. Sometimes, Ryou will allow this. (The smile he earns as a reward is always _so_ worth it).

Fubuki is smiling at him now, albeit far more softly. In the candlelight, he looks positively ethereal, and Ryou feels his throat tighten. Of course he’s getting emotional already. He raises an eyebrow in silent question, hoping Fubuki won’t catch onto his state and misread it.

“That suit looks very nice on you,” Fubuki says by way of explanation, his tone of voice matching his expression: fond, tender, sweet. “It’s different from your usual one. When did you get it?”

When, indeed. Compared to Fubuki, Ryou’s high-end formal wardrobe is fairly limited. He generally sticks to his turtleneck-and-suit-jacket combination for work, and he has a reliable, silver-gray three-piece that he wears to every formal event he’s unfortunate enough to partake in. It has already become something of a joke among a few of his closer coworkers, but for Fubuki, it has been a well-loved teasing point for years. Ryou had bought the suit he’s wearing tonight for that exact reason.

“A few months ago.” He pauses, then lowers his voice to admit, “It—it was harder than I thought it was going to be.”

Fubuki giggles at that, propping his chin in his hand as he gazes at him with unconcealed adoration. He’s never met anyone else like that—someone who can make him feel so loved with just a glance.

“Well, it’s perfect.” He declares, albeit quietly. Almost resolutely, like he’s stating an undisputable fact. “The dark blue was an excellent choice.”

Despite this sort of attention being almost the entire point of wearing the suit, Ryou blushes, busying himself with his drink in effort to avoid his boyfriend’s gaze. Fubuki’s praise has always been a forthcoming thing, but it still gets to him when he least expects it. Maybe it’s his sincerity, bone-deep and impossible to misconstrue. Maybe it’s his attention to detail, precise and unwavering. Maybe it’s the simple fact his opinion means more to Ryou than anyone else’s does, so when he compliments him, it feels really, _really_ good.

Whatever the reason, it’ll have to wait, because the waiter chooses that moment to come and collect their orders, leaving Ryou to clear his throat and hurriedly hope that the redness isn’t too obvious in the candlelight. If the grin that Fubuki tucks away is any indication, however, he has a sinking feeling that his pale complexion has failed him once again.

(He hopes that’s the only thing that’ll fail him tonight.)

But no, Ryou is determined to be confident about this. He will not allow his nerves to get in the way of things this time, even if some woman in an evening gown decides she’s angry enough with her date to flip a table.

Admittedly, it’s easier to be strong when everything feels like it’s going well. Which it does. In-between short stories, Fubuki spends the wait humming along to the music being played by the live string quartet, tracing the conducting patterns of the corresponding time signatures on the back of Ryou’s hand and laughing when he returns the favor. Their food arrives in surprisingly short order, but the wait could’ve been longer and Ryou honestly wouldn’t have minded all that much. He’s relaxed now. Hopeful.

It isn’t until the balance shifts that he realizes he’s been complacent.

The string quartet suddenly changes their tune, and it takes Ryou several long moments to realize that the song they’re now playing is contemporary rather than classical. He really only notices it because it’s one of the songs that Fubuki tends to sing to himself while he does chores, and this sudden shift in atmosphere causes him to glance up past Fubuki’s shoulder. He can see a line of waiters approaching a well-dressed couple seated at a nearby table, and some gut instinct makes his stomach knot up.

_You must be joking_.

The small parade of waiters present the young woman with a lavish bouquet of flowers first, which she seems surprised (but pleased) by. The next gift—a tray of various, expensive desserts that have clearly been specially commissioned—have her glancing at her companion as she gives her thanks for the delivery, curious and slightly confused delight in her eyes. The third waiter places a bottle of _very_ expensive alcohol on the table, and that’s when the man she’s dining with rises from his chair.

By now, everyone else’s eyes are on them. Ryou, however, can’t bear to look for another second. He can’t listen. The man’s words don’t register with him, anyway. The only way he can tell that his proposal has been accepted is by the downright _thunderous_ applause suddenly filling the room, and for all the congratulatory atmosphere, Ryou’s heart plummets. This is, in some very specific ways, the worst thing that could’ve happened tonight.

_That’s what a proposal should look like, right?_

Fubuki turns back around in his seat, and Ryou glances up at him. It’s a mistake. His boyfriend is starry-eyed, his hands clasped together.

“Wasn’t that beautiful?” Fubuki asks, his voice hushed with delight. “I want to go congratulate them.”

Ryou is too frozen stiff to stop him, too numb to protest that it might be weird, and his boyfriend flits away excitedly. The room is dim. His plate is full of half-eaten, incomprehensible shapes that taste like ash. The conversations around him are muffled, hollow, unfocused. He feels disconnected from both his body and the environment as a whole, adrift in some twilight-zone of non-reality.

After several minutes of emptiness, his thoughts close in on him.

**_That’s_** _what you’re supposed to be_.

He grits his teeth, desperately not wanting to let himself go down this road. He’s past this. He’s _better_ than this. He knows his place by Fubuki’s side, and he knows that Fubuki doesn’t want anything more from him than what he’s capable of giving. It’s okay that he’s quiet. It’s okay that they’re different. It’s okay that he isn’t as bright, that he keeps to himself, that he’s—

_Stiff, stern, dry, emotionally unavailable, unaffectionate, cold, not good enough—_

“Ryou?”

That voice. That’s Fubuki. That’s Fubuki, and he sounds worried. A spike of anxiety shoots through him at the tone, and he forces himself to look up and meet his gaze. _Definitely_ worried. His knitted brow and fragile frown speak to that.

“Yes?”

The word barely makes it out. Fubuki’s frown deepens.

“Are you alright? Do you want to go home?”

He’s blown it. He’s fucking blown it. There’s no coming back from this now. Even if he manages to salvage the rest of their evening out of this, it won’t do any good. His sudden mood shift has already spooked Fubuki, and to be honest, he’s sort of done the same to himself.

“Love,” Fubuki says softly, not understanding what has set him off but wanting to help all the same, “Let’s go home.”

Weakly, Ryou protests. “...you wanted dessert.”

It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. This is a fucking nightmare. His boyfriend looks bemused for a moment before his expression shifts into something sad and fond all at once.

“It’s alright,” he assures him. “I’ll just make something when I get home. Less expensive that way, you know?”

Ryou nods mutely, not trusting himself to speak. Fubuki briefly touches his hand before leaving to pay for their dinner, and in his absence, Ryou catches sight of the newly-engaged couple. They look...happy. Thrilled, even. Overjoyed at their newfound unity, at the promise of their shared future. They fit together. They deserve each other.

_Do you even deserve him anymore?_

* * *

The whole trip home is a complete blur, with the world refusing to snap back into any sort of focus until he’s safe inside their apartment. Fubuki is quick to usher him to their bedroom, warm hands and firm pressure against his arm, his lower back—he stands close to him to remove his tie and jacket, and Ryou tries to focus on his proximity. The slide of fabric along his neck, the deft movements of Fubuki’s hands, the whisper of his jacket as it’s gently tugged from his body, it’s all real, but it’s hard to feel connected to it. He swallows.

“Fubuki,” he says, or at least, he tries to. His voice doesn’t really make it out of his throat, strangled and almost hoarse, as though he’s been screaming. _Only in your head_. Fubuki soothes him anyway, murmuring nonsense comforts to him as he lays his jacket to the side.

“Go shower.” He orders softly, giving him a light push in the direction of the bathroom. “I’ll make you some tea.”

Ryou doesn’t have the energy to protest. It’s much easier to just go through the motions, to stay as disconnected as possible from reality while he’s alone. He does, however, take a bit longer than usual to finish showering, allowing himself the rare indulgence. The rhythmic drum of the hot water has always been calming for him, and heaven knows he needs it right now. Anything to chase this heaviness from his chest, these thoughts from his mind.

_Who would ever listen to me?_

He grits his teeth. Shakes his head. He doesn’t cry, but he’s frustrated enough to feel like he could. Like he _should_. Somehow, he has to let this pass. He won’t let this be the end of what he’s trying to accomplish—far from it. He knows where he stands. He has to believe that he’s enough.

_“Sometimes, love is very quiet.”_

Ryou thinks he can feel the worst of it subsiding by the time he finishes up with his shower, but he still digs one of Fubuki’s sweatshirts out of the dresser to change into. Over the years, he’s learned to take comfort in the soft fabric and familiar scent of his boyfriend’s clothes, and he figures that he could probably use the additional support right now. The reassurance. The physical proof that he’s exactly where he belongs. 

_“Sometimes, it’s hard to hear, but that’s alright.”_

Fubuki is curled up on the couch when he enters the sitting room, two mugs of specially-made tea set on the table in front of him. He’s changed out of his suit, his hair undone and spilling over his shoulders—his eyeliner remains intact, and will most likely stay that way until he has access to the industrial-strength makeup remover he keeps in their bathroom. He glances up at the sound of his footsteps, and his concerned expression melts into bittersweet fondness when he notices that he’s wearing his shirt.

“Come here, love.” His voice is low and sweet, an aching tenderness pressed into the preferred term of endearment. “Let me help you.”

Ryou goes to him instantly, easily, _willingly_ , too exhausted to pretend that he’s alright anymore. Fubuki holds him close with practiced familiarity, easing his head onto his chest so he can stroke his hair.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. You’re alright. I’m right here.”

Ryou takes a deep breath in and is only slightly surprised to hear it hitch. His corresponding exhalation is shuddery, almost broken, and he pushes himself closer to Fubuki’s warmth.

“Breathe with me, darling,” he whispers, and Ryou nods. They’ve been doing this for years. After nightmares, after panic attacks, after impossibly long days, there’s nothing better than burying himself in Fubuki’s presence and breathing alongside him. In for four counts, out for six. In for five counts, out for seven. Four and six. Five and seven. Fubuki rubs his back and leads him through it, endlessly patient and kind as ever.

Eventually, the effects of his rhythmic motions and soft reassurances set in. Ryou feels himself settling down, his thoughts reorganizing themselves into more functional arrangements with each passing second. He’s...he’s alright. They’re alright. He deserves Fubuki—Fubuki loves him. He loves his subtlety, his thoughtfulness, the quiet intensity of his emotions. He’s said as much a million times, the words whispered against his skin like a prayer, and Ryou believes him. Ryou believes him.

_“All you need is to find someone who will listen to you.”_

Fubuki is the first to break the lull that has wrapped itself around them, dense and comfortable like a blanket. Even then, he doesn’t really _break it_ , he just...injects a thought into the atmosphere.

“You know,” he says, almost reflectively. “He didn’t have to do all of that.”

Drowsy as he is, Ryou almost asks what he’s referring to. After a moment, he realizes that he must be talking about the proposal and all of the warm relaxation floods out of his body. _Unbelievable_. He doesn’t reply, hoping that his stony silence is enough of a cue to leave the subject be—

—but to his surprise, Fubuki continues.

“I mean, it was really nice, beautiful, even, but—but only because it suited them both.” The words come out in a rush, like finding the right ones isn’t as important as getting them out. “Like. I, being dramatic, could stage the most extravagant, complex proposal in the world, but if it doesn’t suit your tastes, then I’ve _completely_ missed the point. After years of dating you, if I _totally_ disregarded your preference for privacy and proposed to you at—at—at a concert or something, how would that make you feel? It would be like I didn’t know you at all!”

He’s passionate about this, Ryou realizes. This subject matters to him. Perhaps he’d caught on more than Ryou had previously thought—perhaps he’s actually aware of what’s been bothering him since they practically fled the restaurant. He wouldn’t be surprised.

Fubuki continues at a lower volume, evidently mindful once again that his boyfriend is still laying on his chest.

“It isn’t about the presentation, it’s about...the feeling. Letting the other person know how much you love them. Letting them know how much the relationship itself means to them. The best part about that proposal wasn’t that he made a grand showing of his love—it was that the song he paid the quartet to play was _their_ song. It was that those flowers and desserts the waiters brought out were her favorites. He had it set up at the restaurant because she likes that sort of thing—she loves the spotlight, and so does he. He made it about _her_ , about _them_ , not about some fanciful idea of public expression.”

Based on these declarations, Ryou can imagine it, how Fubuki might propose to him. Quietly. In the tranquil safety of their own apartment. After a duel, perhaps, or after a nice dinner. Maybe he would sing something, play a song that he wrote for him. He would be gentle and sweet, almost overwhelmingly soft as he professed his love in all the words and gestures he could conceivably manage. It would be perfect. Just the two of them, safe in the world they built with each other.

In the end, isn’t that all Fubuki would really want? To be shown love and affection? Asuka was right, as always: _“He’ll be happy as long as he’s with you. Even small gestures are grand ones to him, you know. Just tell him how he makes you feel and how much you love him—the rest will sort itself out.”_ He can work with this, can’t he?

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Fubuki makes a questioning noise, and Ryou smiles softly up at him. “For helping me understand something.”

His heart feels lighter, his mind clearer. Yes. He can work with this.


	4. Peridot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For confidence, good luck, and good health.

Flowers? Check. Candles? Check. Hair ornaments? _Triple check_.

After a day or two of intense deliberation, Ryou decides to apply all he’s learned from his previous attempts in formulating a proposal plan that’s _guaranteed_ to work. If he approaches this like dueling, it’ll be fine, right? Know your opponent. Wait for your openings. Be aware of your advantages. Sure, his opponent is apparently causality itself, but that wouldn’t _exactly_ be the first time a force of the universe has tried to make an enemy of them. With that in mind, the changes are simple.

Step One: _stay in_. Leaving the apartment to have dinner somewhere else is off the table because there are simply too many variables. He was closer to the right idea on their first night, picking their favorite places, but going out in public is evidently just asking for trouble.

Step Two: be sentimental, not grandiose. He knew this all along, but after Fubuki had been kind enough to make it explicit for him in his own words, Ryou feels far more confident about his approach now.

Step Three: _RELAX_. This is _well_ within his capabilities. The less stressed he is, the better-equipped he’ll be to handle any eventualities. Like Trap Cards and Quick-Play Spells. This is no different than a duel. A duel that, if he wins, will bring him more happiness than any victory ever has.

And if he loses...

_No. I won’t lose this time._

Tonight is all about them. This isn’t the first time they’ve spent a romantic evening in their own apartment, but it _is_ the first time he’s ever planned one by himself in order to surprise Fubuki. He’ll admit that he may have gone a little... _overboard_ with the preparations (the candles, the food, the bath salts, the flowers), but in his defense, he really didn’t want to forget anything.

Purchasing all those flowers wasn’t easy, either. He knew what Fubuki’s favorite scents were for the candles and the bath salts, but Fubuki doesn’t _technically_ have a favorite flower—he loves them all. Sure, he’s partial to sunflowers, but those could be a bit... _difficult_ to deal with due to their size. After spending so much time listening to him chatter on and on about their various colors and meanings, Ryou had figured that a sufficient amount of the knowledge would’ve rubbed off on him by now, but he’d _still_ had no idea what he actually wanted. 

In order to spare the poor florist from any more of his awkwardness, he’d gone with the ones that he knew they both liked (and were practical to use as small decorations): lilies, roses, and a purple, flared species of blossom he learned was called a bellflower. He’d recognized it as one of the many different kinds of flowers he’d received while he was in the hospital, but hadn’t known the name of at the time.

Ryou steps back, frowning critically at the vase of aforementioned bellflowers he’s been trying to center on the table. Would the lilies look better here, after all...? Or maybe in a different vase? He has no idea how Fubuki manages all of this interior designing nonsense with such little effort. He’s _exhausted_. When it comes to decorating, it’s usually Ryou’s job to prevent Fubuki from going overboard. It has _never_ been his job to do it _by himself_.

Ultimately, though, he’s quite satisfied with his handiwork. The apartment looks...pretty. He hopes. Fubuki will know that something is up the moment he gets home, but honestly, Ryou is looking forward to that. It’s akin to the anticipation before a good duel, the implicit knowledge that your opponent is one of the greatest you’ll ever face. Time and time again, he’s felt that way with Fubuki—it’s fitting that they experience that same level of _awareness_ and _challenge_ and _understanding_ in other parts of their lives, too.

...maybe he _does_ think about dueling a little too much.

Just as he’s picking up the bellflower vase again, intending to replace it with the lilies, the front door opens. Ryou hears the sound and his heart immediately jumps in his chest, as it always does whenever Fubuki returns. Sometimes, the feeling stirs an early childhood memory (waiting for his father to get back from work, rushing to greet him at the door, throwing his arms around his neck when he knelt down to hug him), but they’re always fading echoes of a past life lived. Fubuki’s arrival never fails to lift his mood, to ease his spirit, to rekindle that sense of _wholeness_ he used to experience whenever his family was all together.

He’s about to call his name, to turn and greet him, but—

—but Fubuki doesn’t come find him like he usually does. Instead, he flings his work bag to the floor and dashes for their bedroom like he’s being chased.

Ryou blinks. That’s...that’s not what he expected.

“...Fubuki?” He ventures. No reply. Ryou sets down the vase and follows him to their bedroom, worry rising in the pit of his stomach. “Fubuki?”

The bathroom door is closed, a caution sign if there ever was one. Ryou taps lightly on the wood, his distress mounting.

“Fubuki?”

“Don’t come in here!” Fubuki’s gasped warning isn’t very reassuring, but he quickly follows it with a strained, “I’m throwing up!”

_Well, shit_. Ryou backs off quickly despite his concern, knowing better than to try and help when he’s only going to make everything much, _much_ worse. His sympathetic vomiting tendencies don’t make him very effective in times like these, after all.

He can only pace in worried circles around the house for so long, though, and it doesn’t help that his thoughts only consume him more as he goes. Why is he throwing up? What happened? Is he sick? Is he—

_Please. Please don’t let him be sick._

He busies himself with rearranging the lilies, taking comfort in their familiar presence. When he was in the hospital, he received quite a few of these, and he grew to like their unassuming presence and the soft curve of their star-like petals. They also looked especially pretty in Fubuki’s hair, the soft white or brilliant orange a lovely contrast with the dark, shining strands.

Unfortunately, it isn’t long before fussing with the flowers isn’t really helping anymore. Despite his better judgement, he returns to their room, cautious as he approaches the still-closed bathroom door.

“Fubuki?”

A pause. A cough. Then—

“I think...I think it’s passed.”

Ryou sighs, relieved. “Can I come in?”

Another pause. He can almost hear Fubuki debating whether or not he’s willing to let him see him this way, which is useless—he already has, many times. They’ve both seen each other like this (and worse) more often than they care to recall, so it doesn’t bother him. Fubuki’s just being overly-concerned for _his_ wellbeing instead of his own, as usual.

“...if you can stand it.”

The scene that greets him when he opens the door isn’t as bad as he’d been fearing. The bathroom isn’t a mess, at the very least, even if it does smell pretty bad. Fubuki is a sight for sure, curled up on his knees beside the toilet, although he luckily managed to get his hair tied back beforehand. Despite how pale and shaky he is, he still offers Ryou a genuine smile when he sees him.

“Hi,” he croaks. “I missed you today.”

Ryou huffs a laugh despite himself, shaking his head. He pauses to fill a cup with water from the sink before offering it to Fubuki.

“Here.”

He tries not to look too closely at how his boyfriend’s hand trembles when he takes the cup, to listen to how strained his hum of gratefulness is. He swishes the water around in his mouth, then spits it into the toilet bowl, understandably past the point of his usual level of decorum.

“Disgusting," he quips, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll brush my teeth in a minute. I’m too unsteady to try now.”

“Let’s get you off the floor, at least,” Ryou insists, albeit with extreme gentleness. Fubuki sighs, looking down at the cold tiles.

“...I'll admit, it _is_ pretty uncomfortable down here.”

Without waiting for any offer of assistance, he starts to pull himself up, leaving Ryou to dash in and support him when he starts to wobble.

“ _Fubuki_ ,” Ryou hisses through his teeth, thoroughly unamused. Fubuki takes the (merited) chastisement in stride, presenting nothing more than a cheesy grin as penance for his recklessness. _Honestly_...what is Ryou going to do with him?

The exasperated fondness doesn’t last very long. His shakiness is even more obvious now that they’re touching, his temperature a little too high to be normal, and he doesn’t like it. Although he hopes it won’t last through the night, he has no way of knowing what this is (or how bad it could get) until later.

“You’re not—” He tries to ask after his health, but he can hardly even get the words out. The possibility that Fubuki is actually falling _ill_ is almost too much for him to stomach. “...you’re not... _sick_ , are you?”

Fubuki shakes his head, laughing to himself somewhat disparagingly.

“I think it’s just a little bit of food poisoning.” He explains. “Those leftovers I packed for lunch might’ve been, ah...a little _older_ than I thought.”

Relief hits him first. Relief that it’s something simple, relief that this can be taken care of with some patience and careful attention to the symptoms, relief that Fubuki won’t be bedridden for days on end, weak, suffering, fading at every moment—

— _not like her, not like her, he can’t lose Fubuki the way he lost his mother—_

Fubuki leans against him more heavily, squeezing his shoulder in a deliberate attempt to regain his attention.

“I’m not sick, Ryou,” he murmurs. “I promise. I feel better already.”

Ryou nods mutely, prying himself loose from such thoughts. Of course he isn’t sick. Even if he was, that doesn’t automatically mean he’ll die from it. Fubuki has a very strong immune system...Fubuki has never been frail like his mother eventually was. It’s okay. He’s okay. There’s no reason to worry like this.

Fubuki heaves a gusty sigh as Ryou helps him sit down on the edge of the bed, glad to be off of his feet. He still seems a good bit disoriented, which is expected, and Ryou watches as he very slowly puts his face into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees.

“I think I’m just...going to stay here for a minute.”

His voice is muffled, but even enough. Ryou sits down beside him for a moment, rubbing his back.

“Should I make you some tea?”

Fubuki nods delicately. “That, um...stomach-settling stuff would be nice. I think it’s in the back of the cabinet, seeing as we...haven’t needed it in a while.”

“Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll be right back.” Ryou promises him, kissing his forehead. His skin _is_ a bit warmer than usual, but he doesn’t feel as feverish as he’d previously thought, which is comforting. Fubuki makes a happy sound at the contact.

“Thank you, love.”

The particular box of tea he’s searching for is, in fact, in the back of the cupboard like Fubuki said it would be, and he’s quick to start preparing it. He takes the time to steep it in his favorite yellow and white cup, too, just for good measure—anything to make him smile. Anything to make this unfortunate experience slightly more tolerable. 

Now that the relief is subsiding, guilt starts to creep in, followed quickly by an uncomfortable sense of disappointment. With this occurrence, his plans for the evening (at least in full) are no longer viable. Of all the things that Fubuki wouldn’t be bothered by in an “imperfect” proposal, Ryou is absolutely certain that he doesn’t want to initiate an engagement shortly after puking.

Suddenly exhausted, he slumps forward, his forehead hitting the cabinet door with a dull, unsatisfying _thunk_. How does that saying go, again...? One is a curiosity, two is a coincidence, three is a curse?

...cursed. _Definitely_ cursed. But he can’t dwell on that. He can take care of Fubuki tonight, and attempt to propose at some better time.

Ryou shuffles back to their bedroom, careful not to spill the tea he’s carrying. He tends to be steadier than Fubuki when it comes to safely shuttling food and drink from place to place, but he isn’t keen on starting his own series of misadventures now. Especially since he doesn’t want to stain their carpet.

He enters the dim room quietly, not wanting to startle him. Fubuki is lying down on the edge of the bed, curled up against the pillows, his hair covering his eyes. Ryou can’t imagine it’s particularly comfortable—he’s still wearing his work clothes, after all—but he doesn’t stir as Ryou comes closer.

“Fubuki.”

Fubuki shifts against the pillows, raising his head. Dark eyes peer up at him from behind a mess of bangs, slightly dazed for a few moments before clearing.

“Ryou?” He takes notice of the tea and starts to sit up. “Ah, thank you.”

Wordlessly, Ryou sets the tea on the bedside table and moves to help him, sliding an arm around his waist to keep him balanced. Fubuki huffs a laugh at his insistence, but says nothing, knowing better than to assure him that he can sit up without assistance. It would be hypocritical, after all—no one was quicker to jump to someone’s aid than Fubuki, and after having him as a caretaker for so long, no one knows this better than Ryou.

Once Fubuki is in a steady sitting position, Ryou gingerly retrieves the tea from the bedside table and passes it to him. His boyfriend smiles softly, leaning his head on his shoulder for a moment.

“Thank you, darling.”

As Fubuki sips delicately at the hot liquid, taking greater care than usual not to spill any of it, Ryou is reassured to note that his hands have stopped shaking. He doesn’t look quite as pale anymore, either, which he’s thankful for. Fubuki is normally so vibrant, but whenever he starts to feel ill for some reason, the physical symptoms manifest with a haunting degree of contrast that Ryou has never quite been able to reconcile. It’s too distressing. Too familiar.

“Did you have plans for those bath salts?” Fubuki inquires, pulling Ryou from his thoughts. “They looked pretty.”

Oh. Ryou had forgotten about those. He’d left them next to the tub earlier, intending on treating his boyfriend to a fancy bath, but that had been part of his original plan for the evening. Somewhat impulsively, he decides to be at least _mostly_ honest about that. It isn’t as though he can lie outright—Fubuki will catch onto that immediately, both because he’s a terrible liar and because he isn’t much of a bath salts kind of guy.

“...they were supposed to be for you,” he admits, reaching over to tuck a stray strand of Fubuki’s hair behind his ear. “I had planned on...surprising you. As thanks.”

Fubuki’s lips quirk up in an amused little half-smile around the rim of the cup.

“For what?”

_Everything_ , would be his usual answer. But he just shrugs instead, not trusting himself to keep the secret.

“You really helped me the other night. I...I wanted to return the favor.”

Also not a lie. That _was_ half the intent. Fubuki gives him a look, briefly torn between assuring him that he doesn’t need to “return the favor” for something that’s a given, and accepting the gesture because he knows that Ryou just expresses himself better through actions than words, before his expression settles into fond exasperation. He leans against Ryou’s shoulder again, his now-empty cup set aside.

“A bath sounds nice.”

Something within him brightens at the admission, and he kisses the top of Fubuki’s head.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.” He confirms, hesitating a moment before continuing, “Maybe you could...stay with me, too?”

“Of course.”

Fubuki snuggles closer to him, then abruptly straightens up, an expression of pure delight on his face.

“I can brush my teeth now!”

Ryou has been alive for approximately twenty-four years and he’s never heard _anyone_ discuss _brushing their teeth_ with as much joy as Fubuki just did. He can’t help himself—he snorts, loudly and inelegantly, all of the residual tension within him regarding his boyfriend’s condition dissolving in an instant. Fubuki will be _fine_. Even if he immediately springs up and nearly trips into the bathroom without waiting for his help. Ryou retaliates by insisting on being the one to prepare his toothbrush, only giving it back once he’s safely perched on the bathroom stool.

“Just don’t fall while you have that in your mouth,” Ryou warns him. When Fubuki shoots him a look (the effect of which is severely mitigated by the toothpaste in his mouth), he responds with a level one of his own, a silent _you know it wouldn’t be the first time_. It’s for that exact reason that he keeps a close eye on him even as he starts drawing the bath.

When Fubuki exits briefly to undress somewhere with fewer sharp corners ( _“I can do it myself, I promise, I’ll sit on the bed, okay?”_ ), Ryou takes that moment to quickly read the directions for how to properly add in the bath salts and bubbles. All of this fancy stuff is usually Fubuki’s domain, not his. His job is to get in the bathtub and wonder why the water smells like peppermint. Even with that established dynamic, though, his pride won’t allow him to be caught reading the manual for something so simple, especially not when his boyfriend is _bound_ to tease him relentlessly about it.

Thankfully, Fubuki doesn’t seem to notice that he had any trouble by the time he gets back, nor does the thought even seem to cross his mind. Ryou distracts him further by not taking no for an answer about helping him get into the tub, and for all of half-hearted protests, Fubuki’s words are quickly replaced by a long, relieved sigh as he sinks into the warm water. Ryou pulls up a stool to sit behind him and rolls up his sleeves.

Fubuki tilts his head back onto Ryou’s knees, gazing up at him through long-lashed, half-lidded eyes. A lazy smile curls his lips.

“Hey.”

Ryou carefully tucks a few stray strands back into his messy bun, his heart warming when Fubuki practically purrs at the feeling of his fingers in his hair.

“Hey, yourself.”

What does Fubuki usually do when their positions are reversed? He’ll rub his shoulders, pet his hair...he always sings to him, too, although Ryou can’t think of any songs right now. Convenient, that. Fubuki loves having his hair played with, though, and that’s easy enough. Especially since Ryou sort of accidentally started doing that, anyway.

Mindful of the loose bun, Ryou sifts his fingers through the thick strands, watching as Fubuki’s eyes slowly slip shut. He hums quietly, an unconscious sign of contentment that Ryou has always adored. When he slides his hands down to the back of his neck, applying light pressure, he actually lets out a soft groan.

As always, Ryou is slow to recall that he’s actually _good_ at this. He _knows_ how to take care of Fubuki, knows how to give him the best of himself. The confidence boost emboldens him, and he presses in a little harder against Fubuki’s shoulders, his back. The pleased murmur he gets in response tells him all he needs to know, and he sets into a rhythm, carefully massaging until Fubuki is practically melting in his hands.

Eyes closed, impossibly long lashes fluttering against his cheeks, lips slightly parted as he breathes slowly, evenly—he’s absolutely _gorgeous_ , a vision of heaven among the soft scent of lavender and cloud-like bubbles. He’s comfortable. Calm. Ryou is making him feel like this, blissful, happy, content. Better. His ability to help, his ability to be _enough_ , to be _exactly what he needs_ , is something he cherishes. He has no idea how he got this lucky.

“Ryou?” Fubuki mumbles. Ryou has to bite back a laugh at how drowsy he sounds.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

A sentiment he is beyond grateful for. He never dreamed he would be easy to love, but Fubuki seems to think so. Not a day goes by where Ryou doesn’t stop to think at least once about how much of a miracle that is. This beautiful man with his shining kindness and his gentle heart...his infinite patience and his endless determination...with his light, always guiding him home.

“I love you, too.” Ryou murmurs, stroking his hair. Fubuki stretches slightly, eyes fluttering open to look hazily up at him.

“I feel so much better,” he says, soft and sweet. “Thank you, darling.”

“Anytime,” Ryou promises, kissing the top of his head. “Always. Anything for you.”

_Anything for you._


	5. Opals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For steadfast love and determined hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little smidgen of very-much-background Juudai/Manjoume in this one because I simply CANNOT help myself, I just love them so much. I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! Thank you so much for reading!

On a Wednesday morning, almost a week after his last attempt, Ryou decides to try again.

He’s been giving it some more thought, and as a result has made the executive decision to cancel dinner entirely. The whole food thing just. Isn’t working. But he’s nothing if not adaptive, especially now that he’s started ruling out ineffective options. He wants to keep things simple. Quiet. Natural.

And what better place to propose than where it all started: by the sea? Duel Academy was an island, after all, and their evening walks along the water formed a key aspect of their relationship. They spent countless hours by that lighthouse, gazing out at the waves, watching the sunset, enjoying every moment in each other’s company. It was there that Fubuki had first confessed his feelings; it was there that Ryou had reciprocated, hardly able to breathe for the sheer, disbelieving joy of it. It was there that he’d opened his heart in a new way, and it was there that they made their first promise to each other: to stand together and take on the world. To reaffirm that vow with a new one, to not only make a promise, but to _fulfill it_ —that’s what he’s aiming for. That’s what this will be.

He should be getting ready for work, but it’s still early enough that he doesn’t have to leave the comfort of his bed quite yet, nor the sublime contentment of Fubuki’s warmth against him. He’s still asleep in his arms, aglow with a soft radiance from the morning sunlight shimmering through the curtains. His hair fans over the pillow behind him, silky and shining, and his long, dark eyelashes flutter slightly against his cheeks. He’s breathtaking.

And on this fine morning, it’s Ryou’s responsibility (and privilege) to wake him. Because they _will_ have to get up eventually, and despite being cheerfully active no matter the hour, Fubuki is more likely to pull Ryou back into bed than get out of it himself. The more time he has to rouse himself, the better. And Ryou doubts he’ll object to being “disturbed” if _he’s_ the one doing it. He leans in, nuzzling his cheek.

“Fubuki,” he murmurs. “It’s time to get up.”

And for all that Fubuki can sleep through—alarms, car accidents happening in the streets below, Chronos-sensei banging on his bedroom door at the dorms—he has _always_ stirred instantly at the sound of Ryou’s voice, no matter the circumstances. His nose scrunches slightly (adorably, one might even say) and he mumbles, snuggling closer. Ryou smiles.

“Fubuki, you’ll be late for work,” he teases, even though they both have plenty of time.

“Liar.” His boyfriend replies, his voice muffled. “If it was really that late, then you wouldn’t still be in bed.”

Ryou chuckles. _Fair enough_. He kisses his forehead, loosening his hold a bit as Fubuki stretches languidly in his arms.

“ _Mm._ I’m up. I’m up.”

“I don’t believe you,” Ryou says softly into his ear, and Fubuki shivers, giggling.

“Oh, no, you’re onto me! Whatever shall I do?”

If he’s being perfectly honest, Ryou doesn’t really want to get out of bed, either. He’s relaxed, cozy, and more than happy to linger in the exalted warmth of such lovely company. He slides a hand up Fubuki’s waist, along his back, pulling him ever-closer—he comes easily, willingly, fingers tangling in Ryou’s messy hair.

“Good morning, love,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to send a shudder down his spine. Ryou tucks a finger under his chin to tilt his face up, thumb swiping contemplatively along his bottom lip.

“Good morning,” he replies, matching Fubuki’s tone. Gratified by the quiet wanting he sees awakening in those dark, half-lidded eyes, he kisses him, entwined in almost every way. Fubuki makes a small, pleased sound against his mouth and tugs lightly at his hair, fingers winding through the thick strands to hold him, constant and steady.

The kiss is slow, but there’s desire smoldering beneath the surface, gradually heating up inside of them as the contact persists. Ryou can feel it in his own heavy breaths, in the way that Fubuki’s body trembles at his touch, in the trails of electricity that their fingertips leave behind. And alongside it, a different kind of desire, a longing to be closer. A desperate yearning to be _known_ down to the very core of his soul that makes him kiss Fubuki harder, savoring his soft whimpers and his heartbeat frantic against his chest. _Close_. _Safe_. _Held_. _Loved_.

“Ryou,” he gasps into his mouth, and he’s about to reply, about to bury himself in this moment and never let go—

—and the alarm clock goes off.

Both of them jerk back, away, startled by the jarring noise as it blares through the room. Fubuki recovers first, scrambling over Ryou to turn the damn thing off, while Ryou just sort of...lies there, trying to reconnect his soul to his body and hoping that his boyfriend doesn’t knee him in the groin by accident or something.

There’s a somewhat awkward silence that descends after Fubuki finally manages to slap the alarm clock into submission, broken only by his bubbling laughter.

“Guess we’ll have to take a rain check on that,” he says, only half-joking, and Ryou sighs. _Some things never change_.

Fubuki seems to be thinking the same thing, because he gives Ryou a sympathetic look as he moves to sit beside him on the mattress instead of on his stomach.

“First we had classes getting in our way, and now work conspires against us!” He gives a melodramatic sigh, shaking his head. “Will we ever be free of our inconvenient social obligations?”

“Unlikely,” Ryou deadpans, and Fubuki snorts, leaning over to kiss his cheek before heading over to their closet. Ryou watches him for a moment, then gets up to follow.

“Fubuki.”

His boyfriend glances up from the shirts he’s picking through. “Yeah?”

“This afternoon...after work. Would you...like to go for a walk? By the water?”

Fubuki tilts his head as he considers two different shades of blue, a small, soft smile quirking his lips.

“I would love to, Ryou.”

Warmth suffuses his chest, compelling him forward—he wraps his arms around Fubuki’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder.

“I’ll be looking forward to it, then,” he says quietly. His boyfriend leans back into his chest, lacing their fingers together.

“Me, too.”

* * *

Ryou remembers that conversation when he’s at work later and hears the first thunderclap, sees the rain start pouring down in unforgiving sheets. The world outside his office windows goes white, broken only by intermittent flashes of lightning, and Ryou almost slams his head against his desk. _Unbelievable. Unbelievable!_ Is he angry? He doesn’t think so. More than anything, he’s just disappointed, the discontent seeping _deep_ into his bones. Sure, no umbrella will be able to save his shoes from being ruined (or his socks from getting wet, _eugh_ ), but what’s one more misfortune to add to the list? Not much. _Rain check, indeed_.

Still. By the time he gets back to their apartment (uncomfortably soaked and very displeased), he has the emotional wherewithal to remind himself that the evening won’t be _completely_ lost. He knows Fubuki, with his incomprehensible love for walking in the rain, will be returning home in an even soggier state than he is. So, in the time he has before then, Ryou throws some towels and comfortable clothes into the dryer to warm them up, then sets to work on making some hot chocolate. Maybe some soup, too? He’ll never be as good at cooking or whipping up treats as Fubuki is, but it’s the thought that counts.

As expected, Fubuki is absolutely sopping wet upon his arrival, not looking the least bit ashamed by his appearance as he stands there dripping in the tile entry.

“Did you have fun?” Ryou teases, handing him one of the towels. Fubuki brightens further, immediately flopping the warm, dry cloth over his head.

“Of course! You know I’ve never minded a little rain.”

Although he would hardly call the torrential downpour outside _a little rain_ , he’s always found Fubuki’s lack of aversion to water in all its forms...endearing, if not a little circumstantially bizarre. Loving the ocean is one thing. Willingly allowing yourself and everything you’re wearing to be drenched by the falling sky water is quite another.

“Once you won’t soak the carpet, go put on the dry clothes I left out for you. Put your wet clothes in the laundry room when you’re done.” Ryou instructs, and Fubuki giggles.

“Yes, sir!”

Ryou returns to the kitchen to check on the soup while Fubuki changes. Their mugs of hot chocolate sit side-by-side on the counter, almost picturesque with their respective shades of powder blue and pale yellow. Fubuki’s is, of course, topped with whipped cream and has cinnamon added, while Ryou prefers his without, but both mixes have a peppermint candy melted in. Perhaps different in many little ways, but _just_ similar enough to make it work perfectly.

The rain beating against the windows is almost soothing now. Ryou absentmindedly stirs the soup as he watches the drops run endlessly down the glass, his earlier sense of disappointment slowly washing away. _Adapt. Adjust_. A rainy evening proposal might not be so bad. Although, does he really want to risk ruining a cozy night with his bad luck? Maybe it would be better to just...wait. Again. Lest he incur the wrath of any more vengeful gods.

Warmth seeps through his shirt as a body presses up against his back and a pair of arms enfold his waist. Fubuki kisses his cheek, then rests his chin on Ryou’s shoulder.

“How is it coming?”

Ryou shrugs one shoulder (the one that Fubuki isn’t leaning on) and scoops a small spoonful of soup for his boyfriend to sample.

“You tell me.”

Fubuki dutifully, carefully, takes the bite, humming thoughtfully before he swallows.

“I like it. Tastes like love.”

Ryou flushes at his straightforward _sappiness_ , hurriedly shutting the stovetop off so nothing gets burned. Despite his embarrassment, though, he isn’t exactly...inclined to move. This seems to suit Fubuki just fine, as he snuggles closer, burying his face in Ryou’s neck.

“Thank you for the change of clothes,” he murmurs happily. “You even gave me your softest sweatshirt.”

He notices the hot chocolate then and lets out a tiny gasp, squeezing Ryou around the waist.

“Is that for me?”

Ryou tilts his head to the side, nuzzling his temple.

“Did I add enough whipped cream?”

Fubuki briefly releases him to retrieve his mug, taking a cursory sip before beaming at him.

“Perfect.”

He has a bit of cream on his upper lip. Ryou gives into his baser impulses and leans in to kiss him, swiping the delicate sweetness off with his tongue. Deliberately, he lingers, letting Fubuki adjust to the surprise of his actions, savoring the soft warmth and slight sugary taste as he starts kissing back.

“I missed you,” he says quietly, not breaking the contact. Fubuki huffs a laugh.

“You say that every day,” he teases, knowing full-well that he says it because he means it. He says it every day, too, and about three times as often—when he comes home from work, when he walks back into the same room, when he crawls into bed after a long day—but Ryou doesn’t mind. It echoes his own sentiments, after all, that feeling of wanting nothing more than to stay beside the one who knows you best.

“Careful,” Ryou warns him, almost giggling. “Don’t spill your drink.”

Fubuki smirks against his lips, but pulls back obligingly.

“I suppose I _can_ think of a more comfortable place to enjoy what you’ve so generously made for us,” he concedes. “ _If_ you’re willing to risk me dumping soup on the couch.”

“Be a good excuse to finally get rid of it,” Ryou mutters, much to Fubuki’s evident amusement. “But. I’m not encouraging you.”

“Well, if it eases your concerns, _you_ can carry everything to the coffee table to avoid an incident,” his boyfriend offers, fetching two soul bowls from the cabinet. “ _I_ will be right back. I have _just_ the thing to make our cozy evening a perfect one.”

He breezes out of the kitchen, most likely to grab a blanket. It won’t be necessary to stay warm—between the hot chocolate and the soup, they’ll be pretty much covered in the heating department—but he has to admit that snuggling up next to Fubuki with a blanket is _very_ comforting. They spent many evenings at Duel Academy just like that, wrapped up for any reason, and sometimes even for no reason at all.

Ryou has just sat down on the couch, mugs and bowls all in place, when a startling flash of lightning illuminates the dim room. He hears a strange _zap_ sound from somewhere, electricity fraying through wires (and his nerves) as the noise briefly triggers a fear response, before the whole apartment goes completely black.

_Oh._

The power has gone out.

From their bedroom, he hears a shriek followed swiftly by a thud, and he immediately gets to his feet.

“Fubuki?”

No answer. Ryou takes a cautious step out from around the coffee table, but hesitates, not wanting to trip when he can’t see. Where did they keep their emergency flashlights, again...?

“Fubuki?” He tries again. “Fubuki, are you okay?”

The silence is unnerving him. Slowly, he makes his way towards the front door, searching with his hands for the shelf in the entryway. There’s a drawer there where they leave a few things, one of which is— _there it is_ —a flashlight. Ryou switches it on and hurries to their bedroom.

“Fubuki?”

“I’m okay!”

The immediate reply would almost be comedic if Ryou hadn’t already gotten himself worked up. The flashlight beam reveals a heap on their bedroom floor: Fubuki, large blanket and all. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what must’ve happened when the lights went out. His boyfriend’s embarrassed expression speaks for itself.

“...hey there.”

Ryou sighs, stooping to pull him up from the mess.

“You’re sure you aren’t hurt?” He clarifies, and Fubuki gives him a thumbs-up.

“Nothing but my pride!”

“Impossible,” Ryou deadpans. His boyfriend giggles.

“You got me there.” He glances around the room, gathering the blanket up in his arms. “Yikes. I can’t believe the power went out! You want to grab some candles? It’ll look really pretty!”

He has no real objections to that, especially since more visibility will help mitigate the whole “tripping over nothing” problem. The hunt for the candles themselves is easy enough, even in the mostly-dark apartment. They’ve amassed quite the collection via Fubuki’s impulsive shopping habits, and soon the sitting room is full of warm, flickering light. The whole apartment also smells like a vanilla-jasmine-lavender-mandarin-eucalyptus-peppermint explosion went off right in his face, but it’s not the worst thing, even if it _is_ making him feel a little dizzy.

Fubuki flings himself down onto the couch, retrieving his bowl of soup and taking a large spoonful. His face brightens.

“It’s still warm!” He declares, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit! It’s time to enjoy our romantic, candlelit dinner.”

Ryou snorts, but complies, settling in beside him and letting Fubuki put the blanket around their shoulders. As funny as it seems, he has to admit that he might be right about that whole “romantic” thing. The low lighting sort of reminds him of a fancy restaurant, even with the heavy shadows, and the rain’s rhythm is soothing again. Fubuki is pressed against his side, happily eating something _he_ made for him (something he did, in fact, make with love). It’s a bit different than what might first come to mind, but the most important things are all present.

“We should do this more often,” Fubuki says thoughtfully. “We have a nice ambiance going here.”

“You’re welcome to shut down the city’s power grid whenever you want,” Ryou replies, and Fubuki giggles into his bowl.

“Well, with your permission...”

“I’ll be sure to tell law enforcement that I’ve never met you in my life.”

Fubuki bursts into laughter at that, a glorious, radiant sound that illuminates the dim room better than any candles ever could. Ryou finds himself smiling without noticing, easier than breathing.

“You know I’ve never been caught in my life,” he boasts, winking, and Ryou carefully tucks away a grin. He waits until Fubuki has put his bowl safely on the coffee table before striking.

He shrieks as Ryou grabs him by the waist and yanks him into his lap, both of them dissolving almost instantly into giggles. Fubuki tries to slide away, but Ryou is ready for him, tipping them both over onto the pillows and pulling Fubuki closer so that his head is against his chest. He doesn’t have to hold him any tighter—his boyfriend decides he’d rather stay on his own accord, settling against him with a delighted hum. Ryou can’t help himself, though, and leans down.

“Caught you,” he whispers in his ear, and his boyfriend giggles.

“You’re the only one who can.”

His voice is soft, sweet, adoring. Ryou can tell just by how he’s laying that he’s listening to his heartbeat, and he strokes his hair, running his fingers through the dense, silky strands. Fubuki sighs, contented, and Ryou does too—united, bound, their individual frequencies perfectly-tuned to _know_ each other in every single way. He can feel everything, his beloved’s even breathing, his reassuring weight, the way he draws little hearts against his chest with his fingertip: _I love you. I love you. I love you._

“I could stay like this forever,” Fubuki murmurs. He continues tracing those looping hearts along his arm, _I love you, I love you, I love you._ Ryou makes a soft noise of agreement, silhouetting matching ones down his back: _I love you, I love you, I love you_. How many times have they whiled away the hours this way, content to just... _exist_ in each other’s personal space? It’s so easy. That’s what Fubuki does—he just makes everything so _easy_.

He has a thought. This moment. This moment is perfect. He could—he could propose. _Right now_. He doesn’t have the hair ornaments on his person, but he could get them. He could do this.

Ryou swallows. “Fubuki?”

_Oh, God._

His boyfriend snuggles against his chest, humming sweetly.

“Yes?”

“I—”

A phone rings.

A fucking _phone rings_.

It isn’t his own, sitting silent on the kitchen counter. _He_ doesn’t have customized ringtones for all of their friends, but Fubuki does because _of course_ _he does_ , and Ryou recognizes the pop-rock guitar riff of Juudai’s instantly as it shatters the comfortable atmosphere. His heart sinks.

“...you should check that,” he says eventually when Fubuki stays frozen with indecision in his arms for a few seconds too long.

“Are you sure?” He looks worried. “I don’t want to—”

“He doesn’t usually call like this,” he coaxes him, careful to hide his disappointment. “It might be important.”

Fubuki sighs, acquiescing. “Hold that thought, though.”

Ryou grimaces to himself as his boyfriend climbs off of him to retrieve his phone from the coffee table. _I won’t hold my breath on it._

“Hello? Juudai?”

Ryou watches as Fubuki’s brow furrows with concern. He stands, beginning to pace.

“Let me talk to him.”

_Him_. Of course. Manjoume. The power outage must be upsetting him. Ryou had always known that his prickly classmate’s deadly pride concealed a fragile heart, especially after seeing how his own brothers treated him, but it wasn’t until they’d all graduated that he’d learned the full extent of Manjoume’s...personal issues. He was afraid of a lot of things, and the dark—or, more specifically, the much bigger, stronger people that came after him in the dark—was one of them. He doubts that the weather is helping.

Ryou can tell when the phone has changed hands, as Fubuki’s tone immediately softens to one that he recognizes as his “comfort” voice. He’s been on the receiving end of it many times, himself.

“Hi, baby,” Fubuki murmurs, achingly gentle. “I’m right here. You’re safe with Juudai, and I’m right here. Everything is okay.”

Now is a good time to clean up. Now is _definitely_ a good time to clean up. Now is a fucking _great_ time to take their empty bowls and mugs and scrub them until the paint comes off. Which technically isn’t even possible because it’s fired ceramic and the glazing _covers_ the paint, but _still_. That’s how forcefully he’ll clean them. Just for something to focus on. Just for something to occupy his time. Just for something to shut his thoughts down long enough so that he stops worrying that he’s fucking _cursed_.

He isn’t superstitious. He isn’t. But he’s thought it before (on his knees as the world turned upside-down, choking on his own screams as the electricity surged though his veins, unable to breathe as his own heart tore itself to shreds) and he’s thinking it now. Maybe he’s cursed. Maybe this, too, will end in disaster.

No. _No_. This happiness cannot be temporary—he won’t stand for it. He won’t falter like he did before, and he can’t let his self-doubts cloud his judgement again. He _deserves_ to be happy now.

And what’s more is that Fubuki deserves it, too.

When he eventually returns to the living room, Fubuki is sitting on the couch, his face in his hands. He doesn’t look up as Ryou approaches, although he does lean into him when he settles down beside him. Ryou takes the blanket and wraps it around both of their shoulders in an echo of his boyfriend’s earlier gesture.

“Is he alright now?”

Fubuki nods. “He just...needed a bit of help.”

Ryou pulls him closer, and he comes willingly, settling against his chest. He takes a deep breath, seemingly trying to center himself—Ryou does the same, trying to purge some of that lingering darkness. He’s needed here, now. There’s nothing to be afraid of. 

“...are _you_ alright?”

Fubuki says nothing for a few moments as he makes himself comfortable, although his somewhat melancholy mood is very obvious. Ryou plays with his hair, trying to help him feel a bit better.

“I will be. I’m just worried now,” he admits, his voice subdued. “I hope Juudai will be able to help him.”

“He always does,” Ryou assures him softly. “He’s...Juudai. He knows Manjoume better than anyone. They...they take care of each other. They’re...”

_...like us._

Not precisely, of course. Their romantic relationship is much newer, their bond all spiritual intuition and soul-bound instinct without as much experience to temper it just yet. Their connection has always been strong, though—strong enough to withstand Juudai’s extended sojourn, his emotional distance. Now that they’ve sorted through their own issues, their bond is all the deeper for it. In that way, they’re all the same.

“...they’ll be alright. I know they will.”

“And so will we,” Fubuki murmurs, seemingly soothed by his words, by the belief he carries with him. He lays his head on Ryou’s chest, listening again to his heartbeat—on the back of his hand, he traces a new picture, a twisting loop, never-ending, intertwined. Ryou watches the candlelight as it flickers on the wall, cherishing the warmth of his beloved’s weight against him, and traces the same shape on his back.

_Forever_.


End file.
